


you are beautiful (in everything you do)

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Pharmercy - Fandom
Genre: F/F, My First Work in This Fandom, Porn with Feelings, but not too young, in which fareeha has crippling anxiety, poetic smut, still over 20 chill, younger!Fareeha, younger!Mercy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is one of my first poetic smuts in a long ass while. I'm pretty proud of it, needless to say. I have a thousand Pharmercy ideas swirling around in my head but I think this one may be an excerpt of a college or high school au, because... I don't know. we'll see where it goes.</p></blockquote>





	you are beautiful (in everything you do)

     Silk tickles your lips and your fingertips dance with lace as she draws the breath from your lungs, like she’s starving for air and you’re her only source of oxygen. Her fist pulls tightly at cotton, never pausing in her assault of your senses. Even the slightest casual brush of her touch splinters your skin and sends an icy feeling deep into your muscle tissue, your stomach leaps into your throat when her fingers probe their way under your shirt and her palms lie completely flat on your abdomen. You can’t help the noise that tears from your throat as her nails furrow into your sides and engrave searing designs in your flesh – beautiful works of art that no one but you will ever see. Your legs tremble when her hands climb higher, your knees nearly clack together when her whine reaches your ears, and though you are _strong_ you can’t help but falter when you realize that she actually _wants_ what she’s found, and her high, gentle whimper was pleading, asking for your permission. In the faint light, you can make out the full pout of her lips, her faded laugh lines, the passion in her eyes when she gazes at you, her question wordless, no ounce of it pushy or demanding. Dumbstruck, you give her a slow nod, and she begins working on inching your shirt up your torso, soft hands wandering every scar you’ve ever received and for a moment you see sorrow wash into azure irises – then a blink and you’re bare in the face of the Swiss woman.

 

            You sweep her off of her feet because she’s a goddess in your eyes (the most beautiful you’ve ever seen in all your near-death experiences) and she doesn’t deserve to have her feet touch the ground. How fitting for her armour to have been modelled after a servant of a god? Her legs become chains wrapping tight around your hips, conducting electricity throughout your skeleton and send it sparking across the broad ridge of your naked shoulders. You’re drunker than a relapsing alcoholic while your mouth is pressed to hers, swallowing all those unspoken nothings and finally breaking the quivering, aching tension between you both. She’s the first to break sweet silence of the moment, only to impatiently pull her shirt over her head and toss it to the ground; before you hear it land, she’s crushing her lips to yours in an attempt to take back those few seconds apart. The force of her kiss knocks you back, nearly pushing you off balance but you’re quick to recover – you take notice of the way her hips roll against yours like the waves of the ocean crashing against a cliff face, and you decide that those few centimeters of fabric keeping you from the cold touch of her skin are the best defenses that you’ve ever truly faced. Determination strikes you the way your sparring partners do, quick and forceful, and you set her on the edge of your sleeping cot. She’s a sparrow perching there, ready to take flight at any moment. You make quick work of the barrier keeping you apart before sliding up her body, painting a trail of kisses on her abdomen and chest in your wake.

 

Yet, as soon as you’ve gained this courage, running through your veins like a deadly dose of heroin, the high is quick to taper off and your judgement gets the better of you once more. You’re a demon with honourable tactics during war – you’re quick to find that pleasing a woman is much harder than any other battle you’ve fought. You lie her back, her spine hits the fabric of your cot and confusion begins to choke you on the inside, but a primal part of you takes over, your teeth dig deep into the flesh of her throat, you barely hear the cries she makes, of pleasure or of pain your rationality can’t discern because _Gods it’s all the same anymore_. Soon you ponder all of the things she could get out of this encounter, all the ways she could be taking advantage of you, you’re driving yourself deeper and deeper into anxiety’s suffocating embrace with each thought. Your head is a top that she spins around and around because this is all some silly game for her; you force yourself to believe that she’s heard the whispers of your colleagues as you wind down her body; your worry has already fabricated a dozen lines pouring from their mouths and into her ears, and soon they’re all mocking you. _Fareeha, you’re so inexperienced! She’ll treat you as a cat treats a mouse before she devours it._ They say, and now you can’t seem to shake the idea that she’s just toying with you like a child with a yo-yo.

 

You kneel below her because you’ve convinced yourself to be a mere jackal, and she is your goddess, with shining blonde hair juxtaposed against alabaster skin. You wonder where her wings are as you begin the strafe. Nervousness is quick to infect your brain once again, belittling and raging.

 

With each passing second comes another spiteful, betraying phrase echoing in your mind, and another wound buried far into shaking snow white thighs, another scream ringing from her vocal cords like those born from a hard strike against guitar strings. You bite the curves of her hips and you growl deeply against her apex, scraping your broken nails down the swoop of her sides, all in an attempt to get her to sing for you; for now it’s a contest of how loud you can play her, because in this moment she is _your_ instrument, experience be damned! Her hips fight against your grip and her fingers are tangled in the ruffled mess of your hair, pulling and squeezing in futile motions to stop your attack between her legs. Her screams have only become more musical to your ears and you gaze up to her, past the fine curve of her chest and to her upturned chin, and as soon as a bout of violent shivering comes over her, you work on getting her to match a different pitch. You take note of her noises, which actions cause the biggest reaction… and you play her. Her wailing becomes a melody that you can’t forget, her fingernails pricking your scalp are unheard staccatos bouncing around your brain, sweet prayers whispered in her native language become the lyrics of your song, with your name, as hoarse and weak as her voice is becoming, is the sweetest part of the chorus.

 

There comes a moment where everything becomes still and silent, her body is held as a tightly wound coil for split second, her mouth frozen in a silent scream before she explodes. Her thighs form a tight clamp around your head but you’re sure you’re hearing her screaming your name. Her hands pull you closer to her core, her hips bucking against you, riding out the waves of her relief. You find it doesn’t taper off for a while until you slow your pace, and finally take your lips away from her center. Her breathing is heavy as she winds down from her high, but the echoes of her release still bounce off of the walls and into your ears. In that second, you felt her heart beating with yours, and everything felt… complete.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first poetic smuts in a long ass while. I'm pretty proud of it, needless to say. I have a thousand Pharmercy ideas swirling around in my head but I think this one may be an excerpt of a college or high school au, because... I don't know. we'll see where it goes.


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